I hope this finds all of my readers happy and healthy. I love to cook and I love spending time with my family. Gods Thanksgiving is an awesome holiday. A little turkey, some ham, some scratch gravy, mashed potatoes with more butter than cream, peas with leaks, caramel apple pie, turtle fudge and a splendid dose of spirits.

I am thankful for friends, family, a good job, Master, soft restraints, bondage rope, candle wax, floggers, good men who love me, screaming orgasms and having enough of everything I need.

I choose your cock to fuck me and subjugate me.
Make me take the pain for your pleasure. Next time you see me, turn me over on my stomach, push down panties if I am wearing them, and fuck my ass. If you tell me not to wear panties, and I do, then you will have to punish me. Take them off, and stuff them in my mouth to keep me quiet. I will protest. I will beg you to fuck my pussy first, or at least make your dick wet with my mouth. But you will say no, and you will do what you want. I will tell you that it hurts and that you should stop. And since the safe word is banana, and I have not said it yet, you will keep going.

In less than 24 hours I will meet up with my Minx in a midwestern airport on our way to what I expect will be the Best Thanksgiving Ever. This afternoon I am packing for the trip and I just finished assembling a toy bag for the weekend.

We don’t have a huge collection of toys yet, but each one of these items is very special. The 50 feet of red and white rope, for instance. I remember the two of us dashing into a hardware store right before closing time Labor Day weekend — we needed more rope! The red and white looks so good with all our other red accessories, like the ball gag. We need to have some ball gag practice this weekend. She had a hard time with it during our last visit, but it will surely come in handy when she gets bratty on me and won’t shut up.

The nipple clamps are particularly meaningful for me. I took my Minx out to The Society in Hartford. We didn’t know what to expect since neither of us had been there before. I was also just starting to explore being a top instead of a bottom, so there was a lot of unknown territory. The mere fact that we were going to such a place was thrill enough.

I was in my black latex shirt and Minx wore her spiffy new red latex top and black latex skirt from the Baroness with her amazing fuck-me shoes. After a friendly tour of the space and an explanation of the rules, we watched other folks playing and explored the space a little bit. I gave Minx’s outfit a nice shining, then we found a nice quiet room where we could play.

I bound her hands behind her back with black bondage tape, pulled her breasts out of her top and attached the clamps to her nipples, then I bent her over one of the medical tables and beat her ass.

As fun as that was, the real highlight for me was standing her up and leading her through the club by the chain of the nipple clamps. That was definitely a moment when I started to own my desire to dominate this woman. She was under my control. Mine to show off to this club full of strangers. Mine to guide wherever I wanted. After a drink at the water cooler I took her back to the medical room and bent her over again, this time sliding off my belt and using that on her beautiful latex covered behind.

It makes me happy knowing that she has already packed her bag full of the toys and outfits I told her to pack. It’s going to be hard to sit through a family Thanksgiving meal knowing that the next two days will be filled with amazing BDSM fun.

– MasterMaster

I’m speechless.

I found the following on a website I stumbled upon though absentmindedly following blogroll links. It’s a clip from a Gene Roddenberry pilot called Planet Earth made in 1974 and actually shown on network television (ABC). From the Wikipedia article:

The pilot focused on gender relations from an early 1970s perspective. Dylan Hunt, confronted with a post-apocalyptic matriarchal society, muses, “Women’s lib? Or women’s lib gone mad…”

Obviously, I’m looking at this from a very specific point of view, but holy shit if this isn’t the hottest piece of television sci-fi I’ve seen. I will definitely be looking for the rest of this episode. Also, reevaluating my conception of Gene and Majel.

UPDATE: The quality’s not so good, but here’s the entire show: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

I am so bone numbingly tired. It isn’t that I average 4 hours of sleep a night. I know it doesn’t help, but that isn’t the kind of tired I mean. I am bone numbingly tired of so many things in my life. I just want to hide for awhile, run away from everything and not be found.

I hide from so many things, in so many ways. I hide behind the trappings of being a woman, getting my nails done, having facials and getting waxed. I hide behind those things even though I don’t believe that I am beautiful. I hide behind my hair when I don’t want people to know what I am feeling because my eyes are so expressive. I hide in my coyness, my supposed strength. I hide in the depths of my submission because it abdicates my responsibility and more than anything I hide in the pain because it soothes my tortured soul.

I’ve had people tell me that I’m beautiful. I’ve had people fight over the possession of me, of my body. I manipulate, cajole, use people just as much as they use me. Yesterday, I went out with Master to a swingers party. I understand that our relationship is unique, but the other people were all warned, knew the rules. If they wanted me, they’d have to ask Master. If he chose to share me, I would be shared.

Manipulation, pushing limits… I do it because I can. I was fully clothed, kneeling innocently at the fridge putting away the water when I felt a man looking at me. I knew he wanted me, felt the energy pulsing off of him in waves. I didn’t say a word, just slowly raised my head and looked at him. I let the lust he felt radiate in my eyes and I knew he would do almost anything to have me.

Later that night he asked Master for me. Master was not in the sharing mood and said no. I’m rather glad actually. You see, I didn’t really want the man, but knowing that I elicited that reaction in him, knowing that I had that power was a heady thing. I didn’t speak to him that entire evening. Yes, eventually I was naked. Yes, eventually he saw all of me. I stole glances at him all evening, drove him crazy enough to ask Master 3 times to have me. Each time Master said no. By the end of the evening the man had had enough. He walked into the room I was in and grabbed me, started touching me intimately. Master came in the room and was livid. It nearly came to blows.

Here’s the thing, had I not pushed the limit, manipulated the situation, it never would have come to the end it did. The question is, what does this say about me? I desire to be, am in fact submissive. Sometimes I need my power, that pervasive need to control a situation ripped away from me. I need a strong man, a strong Master. I need someone to understand me well enough to know how I tick, to call me on my bullshit and hold me accountable for it. Submission isn’t just about letting go, but about being responsible for the choices you are allowed to make.

This weekend, I decided that the riding crop is my favorite toy.

It’s nothing fancy. We ordered it from Extreme Restraints more than a year ago, and didn’t really do much with it until recently. I pulled it out about a week ago to try adding a little pain in the mix, and I love it. It makes a great sound – sharp, deep and satisfying – when I use it on his ass. It takes a little elbow grease to get the skin nice and red, but it’s worth it.

Saturday night, we were messing around, and The Professor came without permission. That, in our house, is the ultimate sexual faux pas. I didn’t say much at the time, just rolled over and finished myself off with my favorite vibrator, but he knew he messed up.

Honestly, I was taken by surprise and was really into what we were doing at the time, and I wasn’t upset or mad. It took me a day to figure out how I wanted to handle it. I’m making progress; a few months ago, I probably would have pouted and told him that it was ok, even though I was disappointed. This time, I didn’t say anything. I simply sent him to the bathroom to clean himself up, brought myself to orgasm with my vibrator and went to sleep.

Luckily, I had all day Sunday to think about it. I had let him out of the CB3000 that morning and hadn’t put him back in. We were sitting on the couch after dinner watching tv and working our way through some beverages, and I began slowly caressing his thigh, moving closer and closer to his cock. I could feel him stirring, so I climbed on top of his lap and kissed him deeply. When he started to put his hands on me, I reminded him that I had not given him permission to do so.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I continued to kiss him and grind my crotch into him, feeling him grow hard beneath me. I took my shirt off, exposing my breasts, and brushed my nipples against his lips. He knew that he didn’t have permission to kiss or lick them, even as close as they were to his mouth. I heard a small whimper escape his lips.

When we moved into the bedroom, I told him to strip and lie down on the bed, hands at his sides. I grabbed the crop from beside the bed and began to caress his thighs with it, moving around so that I straddled his chest and my pussy was in his face. I started with some light slaps on his thighs and balls, then turned him over and began to work on his ass in earnest. I could feel him squirming beneath me, and as I saw the color rise in his ass cheeks, I felt the heat rising between my legs. The more he squirmed and cried out, the more wet I became.

I turned him over and made him hold the crop handle between his teeth while I kissed his pelvis and rolled his balls around in my mouth. I came up for air and began to kiss him with the crop handle still in his mouth. You would have thought that I was fucking him from the moaning that ensued, but I wasn’t touching him at all. I continued to kiss around the crop in his mouth, sucking on his lips and running my tongue across the handle between his teeth. My hand worked its way down to his cock, running my fingertips softly across the quivering flesh, never wrapping my hand around it even though I knew that was what he wanted. His moaning grew loader, and he rocked on the bed, trying to push his cock into my hand as I kissed the crop in his mouth.

I pulled the crop out of his mouth, rapped it sharply on his balls twice, and told him to get dressed. He moaned and pleaded with me to give him release, and even though I was wet and ready, I knew that he couldn’t have handled it if I fucked him. He would have come as soon as my hot, wet pussy slipped down over him. I left him there on the bed, got dressed and poured myself another glass of wine.

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I’ve exchanged a few emails with Dietmar at Steelworxx. Not only is he making me a new and smaller A-ring, but he’s also working up a custom PA fixing. It’s similar to the regular one, except mine will run continuously from one post to the other (in a long U-shape) and be open on top (so it can be run through the PA ring). It won’t maintain the PA ring’s position at the bottom of the tube, but it will make it impossible (with the right ring) to fully remove the cock from the tube. It’s the same idea as the PA wire I fixed up a little while back, except in steel. It’ll look a little less MacGyver, a little more Cyberman.

I told Belle last night that, except for a day or two here and there to heal, she’s had me locked up almost continuously for a month (in three different devices, no less). She didn’t seem to think that was very interesting. Before our Mexico trip, I was locked up for a similar amount of time (though there was a 10 day to 2 week break around the trip, I think). I haven’t counted up the days with any specificity, but it seems like my default condition now is to be locked up with only special occasions where she lets me out. This is a fairly significant escalation over previous months where I’d be secured 50% of the time (or less). It would be 100% now, except for the occasional injuries.

This increased frequency is entirely attributable to Belle. There have been several times recently where, had I been able to choose, I would have stayed out but she was determined to put me in. I now believe she prefers to leave me locked up. All residual guilt or worry or insecurity seems to be gone. A year ago, I would have wanted nothing more. Now that it’s transpired, I have decidedly mixed feelings about it. It’s all good, of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I now realize that 1) I really don’t have any control over wearing a device, and 2) it’s left the realm of über hawt fantasy and entered the more mundane world of the every day.

I said yesterday that I was “fully accepting that we’ll only have sex according to her needs.” This, too, is slightly different than my previous outlook. Before, I’d say something like I was “fully accepting that she controls our sex” and that’d be true, but adding the nuance that not only was she controlling it, but that it was only happening when she needed it is a new way of looking at it for me. Maybe I’ve talked around this before without knowing it or maybe it’s been assumed by my readers, but saying to one’s self that “I want sexual relief, but she’s not letting me have it” is very different than “I want sexual relief, but she doesn’t, so I’m not getting any.” A lot of this wraps back into the idea that my sexuality has been subsumed into hers, I guess. I’m sure I’m not saying it very well, but I think it’s amazing that even after more than year of playing around with this that it continues to evolve.

Last night, we tossed and turned quite a bit. She was dealing with jet lag while I was dealing with arousal. At one point, I wanted to wrap around her and feel the hard plastic press into her ass, but she was facing me and spooning a pillow. I couldn’t get a good vector and eventually rolled over to face the other direction. The cock was really hard, not because of any routine physiological reason, but because I was fucking horny. I wanted her so bad, but what “want” means I cannot say. My stifled needs and desires burned in my chest. And, I have to admit, it felt good.

Warmth Turns To Passion

The Chef & The meal

diddy formed a new group called dirty money, but seriously…who gives a shit? lupe steals this mellow beat and makes it his bitch x 2. in case you missed the memo, wasalu is going to make it his life’s calling to destroy any and everything in his path on the way to l.a.s.e.r.s. and there on after. hit the jump for the video of his announcement of his new mixtape, titled enemy of the state: a love story, which is set to drop this thursday. here’s my official ‘welcome back.’

download:

dirty money – angels rmx f. lupe fiasco

-grizzly

She always hated when her Sir was away. This time it was a business trip to Miami. He’d been gone 5 days already, with four more to go until his return. She was so needy for him. Despite their texts, phone talks and emails, it was never the same as his hands,  demanding and strong on her body.

He’d given her a delicious spanking before he left. Her ass still bore the marks from that last time together. When she was lonely she would rub her ass softly, remembering his hands on her flesh. She had cried, the pain in her ass commingling with the pain in her heart. He was leaving and there was nothing she could do about it. Submit, as always, to his demands. Wear that dress on Monday. Masturbate for me on the cam.  Kneel and think of me each morning before your first cup of tea. Do your exercises.  And she did. She was making it through. Barely.

He knew how hard these separations were on her. She was a needy slut. Not just the sex, although he loved how needy she was in bed. On the couch. Across the table. He smiled, remembering the blowjob she finished just before the taxi pulled up to take him to the airport.   His cum on her lips, her beautiful face tipped up to him.  He’d mailed the letters from his destination. They would help her over the last days until his return. He could hardly wait for the fun to begin!

She got the large manila envelope four days before he was due to come home. She recognized his writing immediately, and dropping all the other mail to the carpet, she opened it swiftly, hands shaking in her eagerness to touch something his hands had been on. Inside the envelope were 5 white envelopes. The first one said Friday. That was today! Before she opened it, she checked the others…yes, there was one for each day before he came home…but there was an extra. She thumbed through them again. Friday, Saturday, Sunday Monday, Monday. Oh! The second “Monday” had a time on it…3:30 p.m.

She ripped open the one for today.

                  Good Morning, pet. I’m certain you’re in a  stew now, just about ready to be all weepy because I’m not there to administer corrective measures. Stop. No tears now. Are you dressed for work? Go change. I want to know you are in your black miniskirt, the white blouse with the black dots on it (the one with the luscious view of your cleavage) and your black, backless sandals. Heavy eye make up today, and the coral lipstick you know I like.

When you come home tonight, immediately disrobe at the front door. Lay on the carpet and masturbate yourself to an orgasm for me, then text me and let me know how it was in 3 words or less.

Eat your dinner, then you may watch some television for an hour, then an early bed. I’ll be on the computer at 9. Take care of my slut. I plan to use you hard when I get home.

Master

Oh Gosh! She had just a few minutes before she needed to leave for work. She bolted upstairs and changed into the outfit he ordered. All through the day she thought of him. Even when Evan the Geek from Payroll almost drooled on her tits. Maybe even more, then.  Her cunt was soft, warm, and gently drooling all day. She barely made it into the house before she was nude. Clothing strewn across the hallway, she almost threw herself on the living room floor and had a wild orgasm in a very short time.

Flushed with her tingling success, she texted three words to him. Oh. My. Gawd.

They laughed about it when they had computer time later that night. She slept well, and woke, refreshed. She missed him, but the prospect of another letter waiting for her downstairs sustained her.  She knelt in posture, focused on Him for the allotted time, then made her way downstairs, naked. As the teapot heated, she ran to the front hall table and took up the letter marked “Saturday”.  There were two pages to today’s letter. One was her letter. The other had a heading on it. Uh Oh. It read “Chore List” and it must’ve had 10 things listed on it, in his neat, bold handwriting. She turned to her letter.

Dear pet,

I know you did well yesterday, and know that I am proud of you. Your devotion is noted, and will be appreciated upon my return home. In the mean time, this being Saturday, you have no work outside the house. It’s time to get to that “to do” list you’re always saying you need to work on. I will expect that every item on the list will be accomplished today. Also, not on that list, is your masturbation time. At noon, I want you to go outside, lay in the hammock, and masturbate yourself to two orgasms. I don’t care how long it takes to get to number 2, you will remain in that hammock until you do. Oh, and no going pee beforehand. That should serve to intensify your reactions. You may have your potty break *after* your 2nd orgasm, as well as your lunch. Text me when you are done. One word. Then it will be back to your chores.

Tonight I epect you will be tired. You will have had a busy day. Take a long soaking bath, and be on the computer by 930 p.m.

That’s my good girl.

Master

She was intimidated by the size of the list, but what else would she do anyway, with him gone. The idea of masturbating at noon, outside, now that was certainly going to hang on her mind all morning!

She forgot he had told her not to pee, and had drank several glasses of iced tea as she worked her way through the list. By noon she really, really needed to pee, but she was also very turned on. She slid out of her shorts and tank top, and went outside to the hammock. Nestling into the swinging sheath was interesting, and the rope bit deliciously into her back and ass. Finding a good position to pleasure herself and not fall out was a challenge, but eventually she got the hang of it. Her first orgasm came quickly, her cries muffled, the hammock swinging gently with her ministrations. The second O was longer in coming, and she worked, rested, feeling the desperate need to pee nearly overtaking her excitement at doing this naughty deed outdoors. Eventually her clit overpowered her bladder, and she turned her chin skyward and keened out her release. Panting, she opened her eyes, squinting against the glare of the midday sun. She thought she saw the curtains twitch at the Campbell’s house next door. Could they have seen…..her blush covered her entire body, as she flung herself out of the hammock, and ran for the house. After emptying her bladder, she text messaged one word to him.

FREAK!

That night, when she fell into bed, she was exhausted, as He had said she would be. Again she slept soundly. Her Master was taking such good care of her!

I am not the kind of girl you would expect to be writing a sex blog. I’m a “good girl.” Responsible. Smart. Does what she’s supposed to when she’s supposed to. But I also have an exhibitionist, sexual side that has always been fighting to get out and, when aided and abetted by alcohol, has led to some fairly mortifying mornings-after. And some not so mortifying ones. Basically, I like sex. A lot.

So I suppose it was only a matter of time for me to find a man who would not only encourage my carnal side but push me further in that direction. About a year and a half into our relationship, we started our foray into the world of kink, slowly but surely working our way up to chastity, tease and denial, and D/s (Me/him).

It’s nice. I like it. I honestly didn’t think I would at the beginning, but as it turns out, I get off on being the bossy, demanding one (I know a few people who wouldn’t be surprised about that at all!) who turns her man into a quivering, desirous puddle of need and leaves him there. It’s hot. It’s really fucking hot.

It’s hot, but it’s not easy. Being his domme means shedding the dame image and and taking charge of my own sexual fulfillment regardless of his. It’s not always easy. I love him, and I want to make him feel good. I want to give him what he wants, and I want to make him happy. It’s sometimes still hard to wrap my mind around the fact that he want me to deny him. It takes trust and confidence for this to work, and when we’ve got both going, it’s mind-blowingly amazing. It’s the confidence part that I still have trouble with, but I’m getting better at it.

Why am I telling you all this? I have a great relationship, a great sex life and great friends, but I can’t talk to them about this stuff. The tops of their vanilla heads would blow off if I told them. My boyfriend suggested that I start this blog as a way to discuss the things I need to  and because I need a project. Also, you should know that he gets off on being “exposed” like this. So you, dear readers, get to be my sounding board and voyeurs. Hope you like it.

I neglected to change into my acrylic PA ring before locking the old CB6K on. Truth is, I really like how the big steel ring looks and, since it’s visible now, I wanted to keep it in. Pure vanity. However, this means I’m no longer operating in stealth mode. Unless the cock is feeling a little porky and is pushing the ring down and holding it against the tube, the ring knocks around a bit. It’s not consistent and some times are worse than others, but there’s almost always some kind of sound being made.

I walked around most of the day yesterday with change in the pocket of my sweats to help cover the sound. This morning, I’m in jeans and can still hear it in there. Truth is, I kinda like that I’m making an odd sound. While I’d rather be quiet around the house, out in the wild it’s like I’m making a coded declaration of my position. It’s not like anyone who happens to pick up on the sound will think, “Is that a 4 ga captive ball ring I hear knocking around the inside of CB-6000 male chastity device!?” In fact, it’s not so obvious that anyone will think anything, but I can hear it and, occasionally, so with they and that, I must admit, gives me a perverse satisfaction.

Ironically enough, after I wrote those first two paragraphs, I had to leave my desk for several hours and locked my laptop’s screen using my screen saver. Upon returning, I found that the last person to unlock the screen was a user called “admin”. Not me. My office is on the small side, so I know exactly who “admin” is, though I’m not entirely sure why he’d need to access my computer. In any event, this post was up and visible to him as soon as the screen saver went away. I can only assume that he’s now wise to my little secret. For a moment there, I felt somewhat violated and pissed, but not right now. If my cover’s been blown, it’s not because I was being overt or obvious or anything. I trust he’d be discrete and not tell the world, but even if he did, I guess I really don’t care. It also helps that I can fire him if I want to.

In any event, Belle arrived home yesterday as previously reported. One small hiccup, though, in that I thought she was landing in the early afternoon when in reality she landed late morning. I was planning on using those hours to finish the laundry and clean up the whole house, so when she got there, everything would be perfect. Instead, the laundry was not folded and the sheets on her bed were still in the dryer and the kid’s playroom was a disaster. Regardless, it was really very nice having her back and there were many moments when we stopped and hugged and kissed and exchanged little bites on the neck for the rest of the day.

As we went to bed, the jet lag was hitting her kinda hard so I wasn’t expecting much beyond more kissing. Expecting, no, hoping, hell yeah. I’m back in the “proper” mindset now and fully accepting that we’ll only have sex according to her needs, so I would not have been disappointed had she wanted nothing more than to roll over and sleep it off. Turns out, though, she wanted to come.

Hearing her say the words, I felt like a greyhound jumping after the fake rabbit at a dog race. I quite literally leapt into action. I immediately started to run my hands over her body, especially those areas I’m not normally allowed to touch. She was immediately responsive and it wasn’t long before she asked me to go down on her.

Asked me, mind you! Like there was ever a question. Fucking hell, YES, I wanted to go down on her. I think it took about 4.5 seconds for me to get my tongue in her snatch. She maneuvered me into a position where I was able to eat her out while simultaneously reaching up to play with her nipples. That required me to lay on my stomach with the device (and it’s fully engorged contents) painfully pressed into the mattress, but the payoff was enormous. I could not get enough of her. It was all I could do to focus on the task at hand and not rub my face into her soft wetness. I had the palpable urge to mark myself with her scent. Even after she came (all too quickly), I laid with my face pressed against her. If I could have, I would have crawled up inside.

That power her pussy has over me – the way it consumes my thoughts – is completely a byproduct of the denial. Of course, I was always a fan, but now, I’m in fucking awe of it. Its taste and its smell and its heat – everything. It’s the embodiment of her power over me. It radiates her feminine will over my actions and I’m left able to do little more than worship it when given the chance.

This morning, I asked her if she let me pleasure her because I was so apparently desirous to do so. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and said, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do.” I did that to her because that’s what she wanted. Plus, she felt I deserved a reward for maintaining the house so well while she was gone.

Hooray for rewards!

Le 21 septembre 2009, Noam Chomsky prenait la parole dans l’immense hall Nezahualcóyotl de l’Université Nationale Autonome du Mexique (Mexico), pour une intervention limpide.

Quant on se penche sur les affaires internationales, il est important de garder à l’esprit plusieurs principes considérablement répandus et utilisés. Le premier est la maxime de Thucydide : les forts agissent tel qu’ils le veulent, et les faibles souffrent tel qu’ils le doivent. Elle a un corollaire majeur : les États puissants s’appuient sur des spécialistes de l’apologie dont la tâche est de démontrer que les actions des forts sont nobles et justes et que si les faibles souffrent, c’est de leur faute. Dans l’occident contemporain, ces spécialistes sont appelés « intellectuels » et, à quelques exceptions près, ils remplissent leurs fonctions avec habilité et bonne conscience, quelle que soit l’incongruité de leurs déclarations. Cette pratique remonte aux origines de l’histoire écrite.

Un second thème directeur fut exprimé par Adam Smith. Il parlait de l’Angleterre, la plus grande puissance de son époque, mais son observation peut se généraliser. Smith observait que les « architectes principaux » de la politique anglaise étaient les marchands et les fabricants, lesquels s’assuraient que leurs intérêts personnels soient bien servis par la politique, quelles qu’en soient les conséquences néfastes sur les autres (y compris sur le peuple anglais). Les plus durement touchés étant ceux qui souffraient de la « sauvage injustice des Européens », hors de l’Europe. Smith fut l’une des rares figures de son temps à s’éloigner de la pratique consistant à décrire l’Angleterre comme un pouvoir angélique unique dans l’histoire mondiale et se consacrant avec altruisme au bien-être des barbares. On a une illustration frappante de cette pratique intellectuelle dans la personne de John Stuart Mill, l’un des intellectuels occidentaux les plus intelligents et respectés. Dans un essai classique, il expliqua ainsi que l’Angleterre devait compléter la conquête de l’Inde à de pures fins humanitaires. Il l’écrivit alors que l’Angleterre y commettait ses pires atrocités. La véritable motivation de la poursuite de cette conquête était de lui permettre d’obtenir le monopole de l’opium et d’établir l’entreprise narcotique la plus extraordinaire de toute l’histoire mondiale, ceci afin de forcer la Chine, via des navires armés et du poison, à accepter les usines britanniques qu’elle ne voulait pas.

La description de Mill est la norme culturelle. La maxime de Smith est celle de l’histoire.

Lire la suite de l’article sur : http://article11.info/spip/spip.php?article620

I had this great call with M the other night.  It was so such a hot anal play phone sex call, Mistress Sapphire just gets tingly and excited just thinking about it!

I had ordered my good slave boy M to make sure to have various sizes of butt plugs ready as I wanted to get him prime and ready for Sapphire’s secret.  He is such a good slave boy and is learning well.  Of course, first he had to get on his knees and please me as I fucked his mouth with my shecock.  Then I instructed him to use the smallest of the 3 plugs just to open him a bit, then we progressed to the medium plug, and M moaned and begun to beg for more.

Then we played a little game, and I blindfolded M and he had no clue which one I was using.  When I got to the large one, he was gasping for air as it pluged inside his ass, moving it around and fucking his tight hole.  Finally, I pulled his hair back and fucked him so hard he walked away bow-legged.

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 In a creation myth rivaling that of the most powerful shoguns of ancient Japan, today you were born into the body of a coal black Aprilia RSV4.

 Your dark, naked body shone in the full moonlight that permeated the room and caused our bodies to contrast so virtually we embodied natural duality. My hair lapped across your taut chest – dampening into mahogany cat o’nine tails. Our sweat mixed as we writhed against one another; resting only momentarily in ecstatic postures. As we posed in tantra, our tongues met first, then moist lips slipped top over bottom, bottom over top – exchanging the business of being in charge.

 There seemed to be no limit to the amount of pleasure we could receive from each other. Then suddenly, without warning your chiseled arms wrapped themselves around my perfect, round ass and lifted. I was on top of you in an instant. Supine beneath me, you tensed every muscle as solid and hard as your cock. I felt you grow deeper inside me. Every inhale was a gasp of pleasure. Every exhale was a moan of sweet release.

 Darkness enveloped us as the moon rose too high to illuminate our bed through the tall southern window of the room. There were no doors. The blankets and pillows were yours. Dizzy whimpered in the corner and you reassured her that we would both live through the ordeal. I lost sight of you. I blinked. I looked down where you should have been – where I could still feel you. I saw the shine of your body as I had before and relaxed for a moment. But, how could you shine when there was no moon?

 The warmth of your body between my legs became something all together new and exciting. I felt your body heave as our sweat turned molten and cooled to smooth metal. Electricity passed through us and your atoms split – exposed to oxygen in the brisk, night air that blew in from the open window. We shivered as we both came to orgasm. That would be our last common act as human beings.

 I held on tight with both legs; my creamy thighs straining for a grip. Your chest turned to chassis – a twin-spar adjustable aluminum frame dipped in anthracite – the highest rank of coal – just for looks. Your arms dissolved Christ-like from around my waist into a front suspension of 43-mm stanchions in an upside-down fork. Your elbows became adjustable and spring preloaded with hydraulic compression for rebound damping. Your hands were dual 320-mm diameter floating stainless steel discs with Brembo monobloc radial calipers. I shuddered and reached to cradle your head as I realized what was happening.

 Mixed low and thick, your legs became the twin-sided swing arm now deftly fitted between the bend where my hip and ankle made a perfect triangle. Your knees merged into one Öhlins Racing monoshock with piggyback. Your feet morphed into a 220-mm disc brake with a Brembo floating caliper and two 32-mm isolated pistons. Instead of boots, you wore completely machined Aprilia forged aluminum alloy five-split spokes.

 A breeze picked up in the room and swept my hair around my shoulders to barely cover the tips of my rock hard nipples. I was excited and scared. I still held your held in my hands. You looked up at me with a stare so confident; my fear vanished and was replaced again by desire. It appeared as though you were glowing through a third eye!

 As the transformation was near complete, I knew that this ethereal glow would soon be the center of the tri-jeweled crown of guiding light on our impending journey. I pinched the your fleshy lobes one last time before they turned to grips; found a comfortable two-fingered position around the brakes and managed a giggle as I imagined tickling you behind both ears.

 By this time, your internal organs were in a severe state of flux but the metamorphosis from man to machine was made somewhat more acceptable to me knowing that you already had a four-chambered heart. Not exactly a 65-degree V-four built for superior agility and rear-wheel traction; but a ventricle system none the less. The expansive network of veins that once moved blood beneath your flesh morphed into a fly-by-wire throttle system with double overhead camshafts. Your atria now variable-length intake ducts, and a total of eight fuel injectors. Your blood as pure and powerful a fuel as the god Inari could bestow upon a pious farmer.

 Your lungs of course, were reconfigured 4 into 2 into 1 with a single oxygen sensor. And the rest of your respiratory system was now simply one lateral silencer with an engine unit-controlled butterfly valve and integrated trivalent catalytic converter. You now weighed 395 pounds – dry.

 Now that the conversion was complete, I reveled in the pure joy that was the melding of your soul to the bike beneath me. Although some would say you became mon objet d’amour, you were in every sense still utterly in control. All I could do was hold on. It was different all alone on the front. The wind lashed out, seeking penance for my sins. It didn’t ask my permission and there was no safety word to stop it. As the RSV4, you sensed my boundaries and slowed into a turn to deflect the pressure. On the downshift, your newfound voice sent a tingle from my toes to my tits with a deep, penetrating rumble gnash before hitting the perfect note in the space between my hips where my clit rubbed against the hard leather inseam of my new riding gear. I hoped it never softened.

 Your mouth seemed to swallow whole parts of the road in lurching gulps as we lunged forward into the abyss that was 177bhp and 85lb ft. of torque. It was all I could do to bow my head and kiss the tank where I once felt your heart beat too fast to be human. You reared up like a wild stallion at that moment and I knew no one would ever tame you. This only served to make me more excited. I easily compared my exaltation to the day all emperors descended from the sun goddess who formed the islands of Japan in her womb and birthed them from a cloud. You were man, machine and manga legend all rolled into one.

I occasionally go back and reread some of my own posts. Two things happen when I do that:

1. I realize I tend to repeat and even contradict myself.
2. I cheer myself up.

 
Case in point where I do both simultaneously: Back in September, I wrote a post called “Feeling Good” where I said:

Regardless of hearing how she was enjoying her control over that which made me a male, I told her that I was feeling oddly unmotivated right at that moment. In the few times I’ve been denied this long, I’ve noticed that the constant craving of sexual contact eventually subsides, at least for short periods. It will come back at a moment’s notice, but when combined with the chastity device, I felt an almost eunuch-like vibe descend on me.  I should have been hoping for some kind of sex and getting all frothy, but instead I was very content just holding her and burrowing my face into her, enjoying this period where everything seems to be clicking. If she had told me that she was ready for sleep, right at that moment, I would have been absolutely fine with it. It felt as though a part of me had really come to terms with the arrangement. No orgasms in three weeks, no contact with the cock for the majority of the past two weeks, hardly any sexual contact at all over a week and a half – I felt very non-sexual.

I’ve read about guys who, after having been denied for very long times, will eventually lose their sex drive all together. I think last night I was feeling a taste of that. It didn’t feel like a bad thing, though. I wasn’t upset or angry or anything. I was happy. I can’t say I would have felt that way over the long haul or what those feelings would have meant to my mental health, but right then, I honestly had no motivation to be anything other than her affectionate little rabbit.

Sound familiar? Pretty much the same vibe I’ve been feeling recently actually seems to have started two months ago. But, unlike recently, I was feeling pretty good about it (hence the title). I wish I understood better how the exact same emotions can, in one case, leave me a happy little sub and, in another case, cause me to spiral round the psychic bowl.

I don’t know. It’s complicated, right? Like a little machine made of brass rings, emotional and hormonal and more, constantly turning so that all the tiny variables of life can’t interact on it in exactly the same way more than once. I am evolving. I should make a list of posts like this one for those times when I find it difficult because there are moments of lucidity where all the rotating segments line up and I can see, right in front of me, satisfaction. Then they turn again and I’m left to coast until the next alignment.

Why do I find this so hard? There are a metric shit ton of guysub blogs out there and a very tiny number of those guys (at least, according to my limited census) ever seem to enter into periods of funk and doubt. There are notable exceptions, but so many of them seem to chug right along, never looking back, never really thinking about where they are. Belle accuses me of thinking too much. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should stop trying to figure out the mechanics behind the constant rotation and just accept things as they happen. The difference between trying to stop the wave as it crashes into me so I can analyzing it, interrogate it, catalog its every atom or just letting it crash and wash over, savoring the sensation.

Either way, I’m pretty sure at this point I’ve already written about it, both loved it and loathed it with anticipation and dread.

In rereading this, I feel I can’t leave the impression that I’m still funky. I’m not. I miss my Belle terribly and crave her return. I miss her body next to mine as we sleep, I miss the sounds of her moving through the house, I miss making her coffee. I want to be and do exactly what she wants and I know that will satisfy me. Whatever alignment caused me to slip into my foul mood has moved on. I can feel it. Now all I need is her, with me.

Also, I want to bring special attention to Elle’s most recent HNT. Just awesome. Maybe her best yet. (And don’t forget to click through to the second image).